That pretty much happened.
Turns out, I'm a wizard.
- - - -
I was a terrible teenager. I know, I know. All teenagers are terribly terrible in their own way, that's what the 't' stands for. 'Eenager,' from the latin engiere, means stupid hormonal pain in the ass. Combining the two is nearly as combustible as dryer lint.
In my most-awkward period I found myself caged, trapped between wanting to be different, because the people around me were morons, and the effortless Northface cool-girl chic that was all the rage at the time. Their perfectly mussed hair was the reason they were royal and I was servile, and worst of all it was completely, devastatingly, unachievable. Early on I was forced to concede chic was not going to be in the cards for me, ever. Ever. I took off in the other direction: if I couldn't be perfect I would just have to be weird, maybe with a side of funny if I could manage it.
Through the eyes of a teenager I can see how it made sense, sort of. It's irrelevant how plain you are if you look different from everyone else to begin with. You just change your ideal state to one easier to achieve, something more in your wheelhouse. It was one part defense mechanism, one part deception, and one part real, because I genuinely didn't give a crap. I wanted people to like me, who doesn't, but that didn't hold me back the way it seemed to crush the spirit out of others.
To that end I dyed my hair and cut my hair and cut my hair and dyed my hair. It was black and brown and pink and blue and striped and short and so short and finally, platinum blonde. That was where I lived for the longest time of all of them, in Marilyn blonde, though it was difficult to maintain because my long-forgotten natural color ran closer to ashes than anything else. Consequently I had ever-present roots which were a lot less Marilyn and a lot more junkyard dog. Junkyard dog suited me just fine.
Boys were my kryptonite. I'm not sure what I was looking for but I couldn't find it. I was driven to constantly keep hunting, on a desperate search for some unreachable solution to a mysterious and lonely calling inside me. I grasped at whatever came my way; none of it stuck. By my junior year I was seeing three or four boys at a time. I disliked them all, which was mostly irrelevant. Their initial interest was complimentary and it felt good. They occupied my time, enough, just for then.
I was an idiot, is what I'm telling you. I can't say that I regret who I was, because in the end it helped shape me into someone very much improved, but it's not a thing I'd want to tell anyone about. Or say, write a story about that everyone can read. You know, something AN IDIOT would do.
The funny thing was for as much brassy brass as I had I also had a crippling fear of introductions. I was loathe to call a boy on the telephone or talk to him in the hall, something I can remember even as far back as grade school– I would do anything to avoid being the instigator of initial contact. I needed to be pursued, just not for Cinderella Breakfast at Tiffany's reasons. In order to avoid a racing heart, sweaty palms, and bile in my throat I would do nearly anything to be the chasee rather than the chaser.
It was this fatal stumbling block that lead me, when I finally took a shine to a very particular boy at school, to become his shadow. Surely if I were just present enough, wherever he went, all the time, really this is getting creepy even why are you following me around, he would be forced into a position to make the first move for both of us. Why certainly, the very sight of me would propel him into action! It had to.
Unfortunately, that strategy didn't pan out quite the way I expected.
{to be continued in chapter two}
